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I was a messy Olympics fan. During the Games in Paris, I rooted for several national delegations. Because I was born in the Philippines, I cheered for the Filipinos. I’m ethnic Chinese, so I was thrilled by the achievements of China, Hong Kong and, uhm, Chinese Taipei. I’m an American citizen, so I’m happy when Team USA is No. 1 (or 2 or 3). I live in London, so whenever the UK medalled, I experienced frissons of delight. I also found myself celebrating when these categories blended together, say, the triathlon gold going to the UK’s Alex Yee, the son of an overseas Chinese father and an English mother. Or when I heard that the most decorated member of the US fencing team, Lee Kiefer, has a Filipino immigrant mother. Then there was that scene after the men’s gymnastics floor exercise where the Philippines’ Carlos Yulo, who won gold, shared the podium with the UK’s Jake Jarman, who took the bronze and whose mother is from Cebu in the central part of my native archipelago.